


By Definition

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Dysphoria, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mates, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, POV Peter Hale, Trans Male Character, Trans Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 11:11:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5454515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Peter waits, lets Stiles verbally flail and ramble a bit before cutting him off with a succinct, “Dysphoria.” </i>
</p><p>  <i>Stiles deflates. “Yeah.” </i></p><p>  <i>“Stiles, darling, we’ve been through this. I thought we were past it.” </i></p><p>  <i>Stiles shifts in an odd horizontal shrug. “Apparently not.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	By Definition

**Author's Note:**

> Massive shout-out goes to BelleAmante & Co. (seriously, dude, lemme know how to credit you and I will) for the pre-reading, beta-reading, hand-holding, fact-checking, and cheerleading done here. I could never have finished writing this, let alone posted it, without you.

 

 

Anyone who’s been around Stiles for five minutes knows he has an oral fixation. Anyone who’s around him longer than that has thought about said fixation in a sexual context at least once.

So Peter isn’t surprised in the least when he learns that his boyfriend likes giving blowjobs. He doesn’t think anyone in his position would be turning them down, either. Blowjobs are not the problem.

Until Peter notices that, actually, they are.

Because for all that Stiles will happily suck Peter off two or three times a day, he’s oddly reluctant to let Peter return the favour. And Peter’s not okay with that. He misses the taste of skin and salt and sex coating his lips and rolling across his tongue. He misses feeling his lover’s thighs tremble under his hands as they come in his mouth.

He takes a moment to wonder if his own selfishness is to blame. He eventually concludes that it can’t be, this time—because despite the fact that he can count on one hand how often he’s managed to get his mouth on Stiles in the last year, Stiles himself has been a devious little bastard and keeps distracting him before he can get in a single lick. Once Peter identifies the problem, it’s not hard to deduce the source.

The next time they’re in bed, Peter doesn’t let himself fall for the usual tactics—doesn’t let Stiles distract him with kisses or needy whines, with whispers of depraved fantasies or clever fingers. Ignoring the insistent tugs on his hair, he licks across the ridge of Stiles’s hipbone before looking his lover ( _mate_ ) in the eye. “You’ve been deliberately preventing me from going down on you.”

It’s not a question. Stiles nods anyway, chewing the inside of his lip as his gaze skitters away.

“Do you enjoy coming in my mouth?”

Peter sees the answer in Stiles’s flush, smells it in the fresh burst of arousal, but it’s still nice to hear the stuttered “Yes.”

Peter stares at Stiles’s face, even though he won’t meet Peter’s eyes. “Are you aware that I enjoy licking and sucking you to orgasm?”

Stiles squirms, still refusing to meet his eyes. But with Peter lying on his legs, he can’t just run away from the awkward. Eventually he answers. “’Knew’ is a strong word.” Peter growls, just a little. “I . . . suspected, yeah.”

“Then why were you denying us both something we want?” Peter waits, lets Stiles verbally flail and ramble a bit before cutting him off with a succinct, “Dysphoria.”

Stiles deflates. “Yeah.”

“Stiles, darling, we’ve been through this. I thought we were past it.”

Stiles shifts in an odd horizontal shrug. “Apparently not.”

Peter strokes at the thin skin over Stiles’s belly. “It doesn’t seem to be an issue the rest of the time, even during sex.”

Stiles huffs an almost-laugh. “The rest of the time, your face isn’t in my crotch.”

“So?”

Stiles explodes. “So, you’re _gay_ , Peter!” He’s half-angry, half-resigned, and wholly miserable.

Peter raises his eyebrows. “I’m homosexual, yes. It would explain why my romantic partner is another man.”

Stiles covers his face with both hands. “I don’t . . . I don’t quite have the parts you want,” he finally chokes out. He sounds so defeated. Peter hates it.

He moves up until he’s straddling Stiles’s hips, and gently pulls the hands away from the face he loves. “First of all, you have a cock. It might not look the same as the others I’ve sucked in my lifetime, but I do, in fact, want it in my mouth. Which leads me to my second point—I have a very strong preference for men, Stiles, but my sexuality isn’t rigid. And if anyone has an irrational fear of vaginas, it would be Derek.”

Stiles cracks a smile as he tries to stifle a laugh. “That’s . . . you’re terrible. But you really . . . ?”

Peter leans down and kisses Stiles softly. “I wouldn’t lie to you about this.”

Stiles nods, blinking rapidly. “I just. It’s hard, sometimes. Everything we do feels good, but not always _right_ and I feel like it’s my fault.”

Peter cups his face. “Nothing you want is _wrong_. Nothing we do in bed is wrong, not if it feels good and we both enjoy it.”

Stiles huffs. “And I want to agree with you, but I’m a guy with a,” he gestures vaguely to his groin, “and even though I’m super-gay, I don’t actually have sex that’s very gay.”

Peter can’t help the way his voice turns sharp. “Stiles, we’re two men. By definition, _all_ the sex we have is gay. The fact that you derive pleasure from being fucked in an orifice that has been expressly designed for that purpose doesn’t make us less gay. That you don’t like taking it up the ass, that I do, that you like giving it to me—those are a set of preferences that in no way affect that we are gay, male, and in a relationship that we fought damned hard for.”

Stiles’s breath is hitching, and his eyes are wet, but he’s nodding frantically and the scent of his relief is sweet on the air. Peter drops kisses over his face as Stiles whispers “okay,” over and over.

When Peter finally pulls back, they’re both a little calmer. “So, dysphoria and some confusion about my sexuality were the issues?”

“Uh, yes?” Stiles looks a little thrown.

“And those are resolved now?”

“Yes,” Stiles answers a little warily.

“Good.” He slithers off Stiles to drag over the armchair from the corner. Peter sits before grasping Stiles’s ankles and dragging him down the bed. When pale legs dangle on either side of him, Peter leans forwards slightly and hitches a thigh over his shoulder. “Now that that’s taken care of, you owe me a lot of quality face-time down here, and I intend to start collecting.”

Stiles chokes out something that might be “oh, god” or “good” or even some wordless moan. Peter’s not paying attention. He’s too busy dragging his tongue slowly across Stiles’s folds and up to his cock, which is starting to perk up under the attention. Peter slurps at it hungrily for a minute before turning his attention elsewhere. As much as he’s missed sucking Stiles until the boy cries, he has a point to make.

Peter peels Stiles open, and traces the tip of his tongue over flesh that’s quickly becoming slippery. Stiles whines, hips jerking as he tries to stop himself from grinding against Peter’s face. Peter shifts so the fingers of his left hand can stroke the boy’s dick. It doesn’t take long before Stiles starts to beg for more, but Peter doesn’t stop the teasing flicks of his tongue or speed the brushes of his fingers. The first orgasm leaves Stiles trembling and breathless, all the more powerful for its slow build-up.

Stiles clearly thinks Peter’s done with him, because he inchworms his way up the bed toward the pillows. Peter watches, amused, only to drag him back down just before he gets there. “What?”

Peter dips his chin as he gives Stiles a sarcastic look. Stiles flushes a little more. “It’s okay, you don’t have to—”

Peter snarls. He’s pretty sure his eyes flash. Because if Stiles is still spouting that kind of apologetic, self-dismissive bullshit, then he’s not hearing what it is Peter’s been trying to tell him.

So he leans forward, shoulders Stiles’s thighs apart, and says, “Touch yourself.” Then he tips his head, holds Stiles open, and plunges his tongue inside. Stiles lets out a strangled sound, his thighs clamping around Peter’s ears and his hips jerking away in shock.

Peter’s not having it. He fucks Stiles with quick little jabs of his tongue, ignoring the feeble attempts to push him away. He wonders how he’s gone so long without this—without feeling his world narrow down to nothing but Stiles, to Stiles’s taste in his mouth and ragged breathing in his ears, to tender skin being scraped raw by his stubble.

Eventually Stiles gets with the program, realizing that Peter’s not going to stop tongue-fucking him until he comes—which he can’t from that alone. So he starts tugging at his cock, whimpering under the onslaught. It’s pretty quick after that, and Stiles comes clenching around Peter’s tongue with a sound bordering on a wail.

Peter pulls away smirking. The lower half of his face is coated in Stiles’s slick, and he’s nothing but smug, because his boy’s chest is heaving like he ran a marathon, his whole body flushed and trembling, eyes hazy, unseeing. It’s a good look for him.

He’s so fucked-out that he doesn’t immediately register the finger Peter slips inside him. When Peter crooks said finger, well. G-spot massage is kind of hard to miss.

“Peter— _ah_ —I can’t,” he whines. Peter doesn’t stop the slow stroking motion.

“Oh, you definitely can. In fact, I insist.”

And then Peter’s mouth is closing around Stiles’s heretofore neglected dick. It isn’t exactly a feat that Peter can fit the whole thing in his mouth, but it thrills him anyway. He suckles softly, knowing that Stiles won’t really be up for a third orgasm so soon, but that he isn’t too sensitive for this. He spends long, pleasant minutes working Stiles over with his tongue and finger, slowly stroking at the bundle of nerves he knows will drive his boy mad. He can be patient. But when he hears the catch of Stiles’s breathing, feels the way his boy shifts under him, he knows.

Peter slips a second finger in to join the first, and starts bobbing his head a little, letting Stiles’s erection slide in and out of his mouth. Stiles moans loudly, and starts rocking his hips into the heat of Peter’s mouth and the sweet pressure of Peter’s fingers. Peter would smile, if his lips weren’t otherwise occupied. But Stiles seems to pick up on it, because he breathes a, “yeah, yeah, smirky,” that only increases the urge to do just that.

But Peter has his priorities in order. Blowjob now, gloating later.

After Stiles comes for a third time, he cups Peter’s face with a trembling hand, thumbing at a sticky smear on one cheek. He nods tiredly, and Peter can see that he understands.

Finally.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm always up for engaging with my readers--commentary, headcanons, constructive criticism, personal resonance, fact-checking--but hatred is not fucking welcome here. You come into my space trying to spew bigotry and transphobia and I will eject your ass so hard your head will spin. My fics are tagged so that people don't have to see things they find distasteful, so there is no excuse to bitch at me because you decided to read something you didn't like.


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